


In The Herald's Shadow

by Drakochan



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers, Gay disaster, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-15 21:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10557964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drakochan/pseuds/Drakochan
Summary: Alicksander Trevelyan is the cousin of the Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste, and savior of Thedas, Fain Trevelyan. After learning of his death at the hands of someone Fain had considered a friend, Alick is thrown into a tailspin. This is a self-indulgent angst fic about Alick's reaction to learning of Fain's death and the aftermath that ensues. Ultimately going to be a happy ending, and 100% written on no schedule whatsoever and when I feel like it. Heavily featuring OCs from Onceuponaprime from Tumblr who only encourages me and we suffer together.





	1. Chapter 1

The rumor had come to him sitting in an inn, savoring a drink and a good meal after a long slog through the wilderness and a job well done. The man had been preaching some nonsense remainder of the Corypheus cult. A sad, pathetic survivor of the red Templars that had escaped and gone mad from the lack of Lyrium, if his assessment was right. Alick glanced up at the sound of words that always caught his ear.

“You heard me the first time. The Inquisitor died.”

Alick scoffed into his drink, and took another bite of a roll, and went on with his meal. He heard at least twenty versions of it every week. The Inquisitor died because Corypheus had come back and crushed him. Or maybe it was a dragon, this time. Or maybe a knife in the night, similar to those Alick wielded.

That all came crashing down around him, standing here, in a room that few saw, and the Divine Victoria… Leliana… Standing with her arms crossed tightly against her chest, her eyes red and cheeks blotchy from the crying. He’d known something was terribly, horribly wrong.

Her voice wavered as she spoke the words, heavily accented and quiet in the room. “Alick… I’m sorry, Fain… He…”

Alick felt his knees go out from under him, hand reaching out for a support, but he crumbled, breath suddenly short. No, it was impossible. Fain always had Cassandra at his side, and she’d die before letting him fall. Did that mean that both of them…?

“One of my old contacts sent it, and then the letter from Cassandra arrived.”

He let out his breath, then took another shuddering gasp of air. “So it’s true.” The pattern in the carpet became incredibly fascinating, his eyes focusing, hands clenched into fists.

The Divine’s robes came into view, and he felt a gentle hand on his head, but quiet, waiting, listening. His nails bit into his hands, and he felt the sting of tears. He was weak to cry, but as he took in another breath, it shook, and emerged in a body-wracking sob, the tears flowing unbidden down his face. Fain, the only Trevelyan that had understood him. Had accepted him. Had given him a place to fit in. Had never questioned.

His parents did not know the whole of what he did now, but they crowed proudly to any that would listen that he was in the service of the Divine herself. What of the shameful son that they’d hurried to hide, to shove away into dark corners of the family’s tale? Now it was Ronan that filled that void. The runaway circle mage turned maleficarum. They didn’t speak of him anymore.

He’d left the Inquisition shortly after they’d killed Corypheus, victory reminding him that soon this would be no place for him. Fain had spoken, albeit sadly, that he would disband the Inquisition. He reached up, grasping the fabric of Divine Victoria’s clothing, and pressed his face against it. She said nothing, holding him gently as he clung to her. Fain was the person responsible for who they all were today… Were it not for his recommendation, who knows who would have sat the Sunburst Throne. Alick may have been an assassin, but his missions would not have been the same, filled with purpose and meaning that were for a greater world, at the bidding of someone capable of making it happen.

“What happened?” Alick said finally, schooling himself into a level voice, brows creasing into fury as he stared at the ground. Too young for natural causes. Which left a few possibilities…

“He was... killed.”

“Who?” his voice came out harsher than he intended, and he took a deep breath. “Is someone responsible?”

“The reports are not entirely clear… Cassandra’s letter is…” She paused, her voice wavering slightly. “But it seems he was facing Solas.”

Alick jerked his head up, staring up at the Divine, and she shook her head at the anger on his face.

“You will accomplish little on your own, Alicksander.” She seldom used his name, and he glanced away again, refusing to let her see that her words shook him. “If you go alone, you will do nothing but follow your cousin in death.” Always pragmatic, and she pressed a hand to either side of his face, drawing him to look at her. “Whatever you need, I will accommodate you. Anything but that.”

He opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. No, she was right. She was always right. It was so… infuriating.

“Then give me work,” he said quietly, and placed his hand over hers. “If I stay here… If I dwell on it…”

“Then fury will let you do nothing else.” She smiled, knowingly. “Very well. Would you like to stay for a while? I could use the company as well… And you have not yet told me what happened on your latest mission.”

Alick sat with the Divine for some time, reporting the outcome of the mission, just as he would any other time. A shred of normalcy, though usually Victoria would not hold his hand in hers, warm and comforting despite the roil of emotions that tumbled back and forth in his chest.

 

He left the Divine, nearly an hour later. His eyes hurt and his chest ached and his hands itched to drive his daggers into someone’s back, preferably a tall, bald mage. He chose instead to go back to his room, a small apartment out of the way and usually empty due to his missions, but it was a place to keep his few belongings, his letters that came while he was away. It was his haven from the world outside. When he closed the door behind him, he turned and glanced at the pile of letters on the desk, taking a deep breath and sighing at the chore ahead.

Alick slumped into the chair, and scooped up the stack of envelopes, flipping through them idly, pausing for a moment at Varric’s neat handwriting, and the next on the stack nearly made him drop them all, his hands began to shake. The handwriting was unmistakable even shaky as it was, the letters that formed his name in such a familiar hand that he could practically hear his Cousin’s voice speaking them. He fumbled with the wax seal, and the paper tore along the top, a low curse uttered as he finally got it open, laying it out on the desk and staring it down for a few long minutes before he finally lifted the paper, and read over the words.

_Alicksander,_

_I write this with the hope that you never have to read it, that I can burn it and perhaps tell you about it over drinks in good humor. This is the third such letter I have written, and not the last, but it has gotten no easier._   
_I will not draw this out any longer, I am sorry. If you are reading this, cousin, I am dead._   
_I want you to know that I am proud of you, Alicksander. Perhaps I should have said it more often, but I am so very proud of you. You have become a good man of incredible skill, and Divine Victoria is lucky to have you in her service and the Inquisition was lucky to have you among its ranks. I know I had a tendency to coddle you at times, and maybe I acted more like a father than a cousin, than a friend, but it was all because I love you._   
_No matter the cause of my end, I beg you to not let anger or pain rule you. You have come so far, done so much for yourself. Please do not throw it away for vengeance. Keep strong, Alick, like I always said. Brave and strong like all the heroes._   
_There is one last thing I must ask of you, I must. Please visit Isana as often as you can, let her know you. You are family Alick, you always will be._   
_I wish I could write more, but I do not have the strength for more. I never was good at goodbyes._

_-Fain_

His throat felt tight, and he threw the paper down again on his desk, a hand going up to his forehead. How could he just sit by and let this go? It wasn’t fair. Fain got to say his goodbyes, but what about Alick? He was no hero, he never had been. Heroes were kind and just, and always knew just what to say. They were handsome and brave and not afraid to stand against impossible odds. Not petulant runaways that took any opportunity to flee for selfish reasons…

He stood, and grasped the first thing at hand, a glass paperweight with swirls of color, and threw it with all his might. It didn’t shatter against the stone wall, lacking that satisfying crash. Alick shouted, wordless and pained, and sank once again to his knees.  
They didn’t live in a fairytale world, and the bravest heroes died alone.

 

Against the Divine’s suggestions, he refused to take time, not when this anger seethed within him, and he was likely to crumble in front of Cassandra, much less Isana. The last time he’d been there, she’d been barely four, but already she resembled her father. That smile that looked just like his, and her face that so often seemed suspended exactly between the two of them, the sharp cheekbones that she inherited from Cassandra, and her eyes soft and her skin almost that same deep tone that seemed to run in the Trevelyan family if his own features were any indication.

He wasn’t ready to face that.

  
Instead, he threw himself into missions, no sooner returning for one than leaving for another. The paperweight still sat in the corner of the room, the letter tucked safely into a drawer among some other keepsakes, like letters from those he’d left behind near the end of the Inquisition, and some other trinkets. Little things, precious things.

Nearly two months, scarcely sleeping in his own bed, before the Divine finally put a stop to it.

 

“What do you mean you don’t have anything for me?” Alick said, voice strained but staring straight ahead, back straight, hands folded behind himself, a stillness that he’d learned from careful training during his time with the Inquisition.

“You think I have not seen what you are doing, but I am not so blind as you pretend. I may not be the Nightingale any longer, but I’m no fool, Alick.” There was a contained impatience in her voice, reflecting his own in some ways. “I see what you are trying to do, and I will now allow you to kill yourself for my sake.”

“So you are sending me away?”

“Of course not. I think it would be good for you to spend some time of your own.” She offered a gentle smile. “Find something to distract yourself, something to do with living and enjoying what life has to offer you still. We all grieve for him, but you do no favors to anyone carrying on as you do, least of all yourself.”

Alick seethed, but nodded, not allowing it to show on his face, chin dropping as he glared at the ornate carpet in the Divine’s audience chamber.

“And if you are ready to talk, I am here to listen.”

“Yes, Divine. I will keep that in mind.”

“Go to Ostwick, if you will not go see Cassandra and Isana... Perhaps not back to your family, but a familiar place…” There was a plea in her face when he looked back up, and he had to look away again, teeth digging into his bottom lip.

“If that is what you think is best, Divine.”

“I do.”

Less than a week later, he was on the road, traveling in comfort and style to Ostwick. His parents had already offered their home, but he’d set up lodging elsewhere in the city. His arrival in the city was met with stares (one didn’t show up in a carriage marked even subtly with the Divine’s heraldry without catching a few glances), and he immediately went to his lodging house, the carriage off again back to the Divine to await the needs of the Sunburst Throne.

Alick went back home, and his stomach felt tight at the sight of the mansion he’d grown up in, all its high walls and sprawling wings and the lake that he couldn’t see but knew was behind it, big and dark and deep. This wasn’t home, and he wasn’t certain it had ever been, as he stood in the entryway, a servant running to fetch his parents and Weston, who ran the house now in all but title.

“Alicksander?” His mother’s voice, accented still, came through the hall. He turned, offering a weak smile, and was gathered up into an embrace, his mother’s scent strong around him. Jasmine and vanilla, sweet and cloying. He returned the embrace, then stepped back. Sabine had never been a tall woman, though all her sons were taller than she, and she lifted a hand to stroke his cheek. “Mon cher, you look positively wretched. That traveling was not kind to you. Please, come, sit, have some tea…” She grasped his hand, and led him to a drawing room, open with floor to ceiling windows, and walls of books. The table where he and his siblings had done their lessons was still there, no doubt the scratches of their initials still in the bottom of it. He wondered if the servants or his parents had ever found it… “We… We got news of your cousin, Alicksander. I am very sorry, I know that you were close…”

“We were.” He didn’t elaborate, and settled into a chair, leveling an even expression at his mother. “I only wanted to let you know that I will be in town for a while, but I am here to mourn. I won’t be attending any soirees or social events.”

“Oh… Oh dear that is a pity. The Carellans will be having their seasonal ball, and I know they’d dearly love to see you…”

“I barely know them, Maman, and I certainly have nothing to speak to them about. They would only want gossip from the Divine’s side, and I’m not playing their games. We’re not in Orlais, and I’m not here to be dressed up and paraded around as I once was.”

“Alicksander, dear, but surely… Surely you must be thinking of marrying? Weston is engaged to a lovely young woman, and I’m sure we could find you a suitable match.” Her accent deepened in her distress, and her hands fluttered uselessly on her lap.

Alick sighed deeply, and stood. “I will not marry, Maman. I have already said so, and in near a decade, my mind is made up on that. I won’t marry a girl that would be miserable with me, as I cannot give her the affection she would surely expect.”

“You’re not carrying on with that nonsense still?” her voice hardened, and she straightened, a steely look in her deep blue eyes, her cheeks darkening with a flush of anger, even through all her carefully applied cosmetics. Just another kind of mask, Alick supposed, since she gave up those of Orlais while she lived in the Free Marches.

“What nonsense?”

“With… With…” She waved her hand vaguely as if it would be explained.

“With men?” He hadn’t intended his voice to come out so harsh, but the words had a snap, and as if physically struck, Sabine drew back.

“Alicksander!” She dropped her voice low, the fluttering lady gone in the place of the steely politician that had taught him the Game. She hadn’t ever been all that good at it, but it still didn’t change what she’d known… Still didn’t change her nature, which was the irony in all this.

“Maman, just as you cannot change your nature to be a songbird, I cannot change myself to suddenly have a preference that is acceptable. I won’t apologize for it, though I do apologize that you feel this way… I should go.”  
He didn’t even see his father descending the stairs as he swept out of the house, the front door slamming after him as he fled, finding the first bar he could, remembering the paths from years ago. The name hadn’t changed, and the decor was still battered as ever, with an attempt to look fine. He started with a bottle of harder liquor, putting down coin for a bottle he’d only dreamed of purchasing as a younger man, and took it, and his glass, to a quiet corner of the place to drink alone.

 

The days blurred together, a string of taverns and the burn of alcohol, retching in an alley as he stumbled his way back to the lodging house, then starting all over again when he woke. It never seemed to ease the dreams, where he wasn’t quite fast enough to save Fain. The scenery changed from night to night, but some things stayed the same, and he was never there in time, coming across his collapsed form, bow snapped beside him, and Solas, as he remembered, sneering and arrogant in his shabby apostate rags, standing over him, fading away when Alick got close.

The woman that ran the lodging house took to leaving him tea in the mornings, and a small loaf of bread, plain. He’d paid good money, and he hadn’t yet destroyed anything here, just crawled in at all hours of the morning to pass out in his bed, so she hadn’t yet tired of him at least… He sipped at the cold tea, mint strong on his tongue, but it settled his stomach, and the bread did the rest. It was at least midday, the sounds of the city lively and loud outside his windows, though he’d pulled the curtains to block most of the light. His head pounded and his stomach was finally settled, and he took a deep breath, nose crinkling at his own scent. Perhaps a bath was in order… He finished his breakfast first, then gathered the tray and wandered down to the main floor, in hopes of finding the matronly woman that he was renting the room from.

She appeared as he rounded a corner, causing him to nearly drop the tray, though he didn’t, and apologized hastily.

“Oh… No, no, I should watch where I’m going. I can take that,” she said, and gently removed the tray from Alick’s hands, smiling up at him. “Was there something you needed?”

“I… Was hoping that I might make use of the bathing facilities?” he said quietly.

“Of course, dear. There should be hot water, a clever mage that stayed here helped me set it up once. Would you believe, we used to cart water all the way from the kitchen? The baths are right over here.” She led him to a small room that let out a wall of humid air as she opened the door. “It pumps right up from the well and heats with a clever little device that uses a rune.” She smiled, and patted Alick’s shoulder. “Help yourself whenever you need it, dear.” She bustled off, leaving Alick to marvel at the place, with four separate tubs, wooden walls dividing them from one another. After going back to his room to get a change of clothing, he was back, settling into a tub of steaming water several minutes later, soaking for a while before actually making use of the soap and cloths.

When he emerged, his headache had abated and he smelled somewhat more presentable. He didn’t intend to go anywhere with that, though, and merely returned to his room, grateful for the innkeeper and her habit of periodically clearing the empty bottles from the room. It meant it was easier to find a not empty one, which he poured into a tankard, and sat in the single chair, peering out the window and squinting against the sunlight as he watched Ostwick pass by below, feeling the pleasant buzz that would mean soon he’d forget about the letter, and about his mother’s words, and about the guilt eating at him for not going to see Cassandra and Isana.


	2. Chapter 2

Alick stayed in Ostwick only long enough to finish the time he paid for at the lodging house, two weeks, before he began the journey back towards Orlais, spending a disproportionate amount of time in taverns to inns with disparate company, looking more a vagabond than the Left Hand of the Divine. A few drinks in was enough to dull the sharp edge of guilt and pain of loss, and a few more to send him into that glorious medium between blacking out and still managing to forget everything for a few hours. It was mostly a blur, which was better than the alternative if Alick had any say in it.

His path looped south, towards Kirkwall, a several-day detour from his original intended trajectory to Orlais and to Fain and Cassandra’s home, on a brief harebrained whim to seek out Varric. Maybe see the famed Hanged Man from all his tales of the Champion. That idea died as he neared the city, knowing that for one, the Viscount had better things to do than entertain the Inquisitor’s cousin, and he led his horse on a road that led to a small town just beyond Kirkwall, that had a large tavern, and an innkeeper that didn’t ask many questions.

Once he’d settled his horse safely in the stables and ensured she was cared for, he settled into a table in the bar, starting off strong with a bottle and a small tin cup that he hunched over, doing his best to appear completely unapproachable.

He had no intention of becoming involved when he first heard grumbles about the Inquisition, knowing that it wasn’t worth it to step in any time the organization was besmirched by some nobody in a tavern. He’d had no intention of getting involved at all with anything, as the room swam around him, the liquor strong--some Antivan vintage that burned in his stomach, but he had asked for the best in the house… But then the man had the nerve to speak ill of Fain.

“Damn arrogant bastard, the Inquisitor, thinking he can traipse about Thedas like that, no consequences.” Alick felt his lips curl into a snarl, and he had some trouble with the chair legs becoming tangled about his feet as he stood. The man, a laborer of some kind from the look of him, laughed loudly at something one of his table-mates said. “Aye, hopped up noble’s kid saying he’s trying to do good for the people and not caring who gets stepped on the way there. We all saw how that went with Kirkwall.”

Alick was about to lunge across the room at him, but a voice raised before he could weave his way to the man.

“Watch your tongue, you dull-witted fuck.” Another had stood, closing the distance so he stood by the man’s chair. An elf, his long pale blonde hair tied up and his eyes flashing with anger. 

The laborer stood, and Alick paused, re-thinking his valiant defense of Fain’s honor the way the man towered over the elf. “Say that again, knife-ear?”

“He’s a better man than you’ll ever be, and the Champion happens to be a personal friend,” the elf said definitively, and clearly didn’t see the swing until he was stumbling back into another table.

Alick let out a shout, returning the punch to the hapless elf with one of his own, landing it and feeling the sharp pain in his fist. Never punch a man in the face, lesson one. It was however, satisfying to see the man stumble himself, and Alick had a knife in his hand before he realized what he was doing.

“You heard him the first time,” Alick growled, eyes narrowing. “He said you’re a dull-witted fuck, and I suggest you gather what little wits you have and get the hell out of here.” The dagger glinted in the firelight, and the bard near the hearth had silenced, the room tense as the other patrons watched this scene play out.

“The hell you think you are?” The man loomed above Alick, at least half a foot taller than he. Perhaps it was the alcohol singing through his veins that gave him the courage for it, but he closed the distance and sneered up at the man.

“I’m the Divine’s Left Hand, and I happen to know that you’re full of shit.”

The mountain of a man laughed, deep and hearty in a way that almost reminded him of Bull, and Alick saw the punch coming but it did little to save him from the sudden ringing in his ears.  “We’ve just got all manner of celebrity here tonight, boys. The Left Hand of the Divine, and a jester too.” His broad hand waved towards the elf, who was gathering himself to his feet a couple tables away.

Alick reached up, and didn’t feel blood, though his ear still rang sharply. He raised the knife, and wasn’t fast enough to stop the next punch, faster than he thought should be physically possible for the man, big as he was. It got him in the gut, and he doubled over, breathless as he groped at a chair to hold himself steady, the knife forgotten on the floor. He shot a glance over at the elf, whose eyes darted from the knife, to Alick, to the very large man who was rounding on him now. Alick wasn’t about to go down so easily, and straightened, finally catching his breath, and used a chair to boost himself up to loop an arm around the man’s throat. Bull had taught him this trick. He grabbed his fist with his other hand, digging his elbow into the man’s back as he pulled the arm tight around his throat, not cutting off air but the man was sure to feel woozy in a few moments. He started grabbing up behind his head, reaching for Alick, who was perched precariously by the grip of his arms.

And as expected, the man stumbled, falling to his knees heavily a few seconds later, nearly unseating Alick as his feet suddenly hit the floor again. He loosed his grip only once he felt his victim go unconscious, and stepped back, hands up at the few men that had risen to get involved. They took a look at the heap of man on the floor, and thought better as Alick leaned down to pick up his knife, despite the fact that he might be wobbling significantly. He turned to face the man’s friend, a cocky grin on his face, when the punch came. This one he wasn’t expecting, and it sent a starburst of pain through his face, a familiar sensation that had him cursing in the back of his thoughts, maybe aloud too, but he wasn’t entirely sure. Another broken nose… And here he’d thought they might actually get out of tonight without any bloodshed.

The sound of a bottle crashing above him preceded the heavy thud of another body beside where he’d sunk to the ground, a hand over his face doing little to ease the blood that he felt flowing from his nose.

“Anyone else want to give it a shot?” The elf’s legs came into view, his voice loud and full of fire as he challenged the rest of the bar. Upon no takers, the sound of something landing on the table was followed closely by a voice pitched low. “Are you alright?” Then a pause. “Is  _ he _ gonna be alright?” A shoe nudged the laborer’s prone muscled mass. 

“Be fine,” Alick said, nasally and pained, and a bit slurred from the liquor. “Get me a rag and my bottle from that table over there…” He waved vaguely in the direction he’d been sitting, and dragged himself to his feet only once the boots retreated from view. He sighed, putting the knife back in its sheath at his belt.

His makeshift ally came back, handing him the rag, which he promptly used to wipe his face, then tilted his head back with a wince. 

“What’s the booze for? Disinfecting?”

“To drink, obviously,” Alick said, pressing the rag to his nose and lowered his head, snatching the bottle with his other hand, and took a long drink straight from the bottle, then tilted his head back again. No one else in the bar seemed interested in getting involved, but the barkeep approached them, his arms crossing as he surveyed the damage.

“You pay good, boy, but I didn’t want any trouble. I think you should take your friend and leave.”

Alick scoffed, and regretted it as the taste of blood from his cut cheek from the first punch flooded his tongue. “Yeah, we’re leaving. Don’t worry. Soon as I know I won’t bleed all over,” he muttered, and veered away as the elf obviously was moving in to assist. “I’m fine.” His voice was gruff, and he snatched the bottle, weaving unsteadily through the tables towards the door. Everyone carefully looked away as he passed, but he almost didn’t blame them. His hair was unkempt and shaggy, escaping the loose tail he pulled it up in, and the last time he’d looked in a mirror he was haggard and looked like one of those mad apostates that had a hovel in the woods.

“You fight like you know what you’re about,” a light tone chimed once they exited the bar. “But I think I have to agree with that man in that I’m a little skeptical you’re the Left Hand.”

Alick turned a sharp look at the elf, eyes narrowing as he considered all the ways he could end the man. But that would be rude… So Alick shrugged one shoulder. “Believe what you want. You don’t take shit talk about the Inquisitor, so you’re alright.”

“I meant what I said. He’s a good man.” He turned, flashing a grin Alick’s way. “Arinel. And you are?”

Alick blinked, glancing at the tattoos across his cheekbones that he hadn’t noticed inside, then at the hand offered his way. 

“Alick. You seem to have made it out no worse for wear…”

“Bump on my head from when he punched me, hit a table on the way down… But I think he got your nose pretty good.”

“Mmm,” Alick agreed wordlessly, pulling the cloth away to see if the bleeding had stopped. He didn’t feel it anymore, and counted that as a victory. “I’ve got to see a bottle about the rest of my plans for the night, if you’ll excuse me.”

“Wait… That’s it? You jump to my defense in a bar fight and then go off to drink alone?”

Alick turned, shooting the elf an incredulous look. “Seems about the tall and short of it. I jumped to Fain Trevelyan’s defense, you were just a good excuse to give that ass what he deserved.” 

Arinel let out a bemused, ‘huh’ sort of noise, smiling faintly. “Well, I appreciate it anyway. I’ll see you around.”

“Maybe,” Alick said, debating if he’d be able to acquire drink from the inn without leaving. Then scowled as he realized this town probably wasn’t large enough to accommodate such a thing. Maybe Kirkwall wouldn’t be so bad. 

By the time he arrived in his room and flopped onto his bed, fingers running delicately along the bridge of his nose as he tried to determine how bad the break was, he had decided better of it. He looked half like Darkspawn and Varric would guilt him about not going to see his family, and he definitely wouldn’t put up with Alick’s drinking. It was one thing when he was living to excess under the watchful eye of his cousin and the inner circle. It was another when he was on a self-destructive alcoholic bent across Thedas. Alone. He groaned, and jerked sharply at the knock on his door.

“Ser, there’s a man here to see you.”

“A... what?” Alick clambered to his feet, taking another swig of the bottle, and pushed the door open by falling against it heavily, nearly pitching himself into the hall. 

The timid man that tended the inn’s front table jumped back, looking Alick over, then cleared his throat. Alick glanced over his shoulder, and his brows arched into his shaggy hair. Arinel stood behind the man, a hand brushing across his temple almost sheepishly.

“C’mon in,” Alick grumbled, paying the man no mind, and turned, sitting heavily in a chair at the table by the foot of the bed. “You followed me.”

“Not exactly.” Arinel closed the door after thanking the man outside. “Just realized you should set your nose if you don’t want it to heal crooked.”

“More crooked,” Alick corrected, and poked at his cheek, wincing.

“I know how to do it, I can help. The least I can do.”

“Damn it,” Alick muttered, then waved a hand. “Fine, you can help. Wouldn’t think one of yours would care so much about a  _ shem _ to offer your deep knowledge of healing.”

Arinel let out a huff of breath, and shook his head. “I’m... You know, never mind that, just let me help you so I don’t feel guilty about this, yeah?”

Alick wasn't sure what to make of that reaction. He'd met his fair share of the Dalish they'd worked with in the Inquisition, but Arinel wasn't much like any of them. Then again, he wasn't much like the city elves he'd met either. He nodded instead, and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. 

“Alright, do it if you're gonna--SON OF A BITCH.” The sharp pain of his nose aligned back in place made him feel slightly faint, but in his defense he didn't actually pass out, instead pressing the rag back to his nose and tilting his head back again. 

“Thought it might be best if you didn't expect it.” Arinel moved into his line of sight. “Were you part of the Inquisition?”

“Yes,” Alick said, and closed his eyes, not daring to move his face to express his confusion. Hurt too damn much.

“Ah, that explains it. I never joined, but I knew the Inquisitor from before.”

“And you're friends with Hawke....”

Arinel glanced at him, and nodded. “I take it you've heard…”

“That he was killed?” Alick said bitterly, and laughed, one humorless bark. “That's why I'm trying to drown myself in as much Antivan or Tevinter or any other kind of wine I can get my hands on.”

“Seems you've graduated from wine, my friend.”

“About a month back. What of it?”

“You haven't been here a month. They would have known you when I asked for your name.” 

“Just arrived.” Alick’s eyes narrowed, and his hand dropped to his belt. 

“So you've been drunkenly weaving your way across Thedas?” Arinel seemed amused at that, and he settled into the other chair at the table. Alick thought briefly to tell him off for it, dropping his hand away from his belt. It wasn't worth the effort. He reached for the bottle instead, swishing it thoughtfully before taking a long drink.

“I'm grieving.”

“I can see that.” He smiled wryly. “I was just wondering if you've ever heard that phrase… misery loves company, I believe it goes?”

Alick grunted affirmation. “And you wanted to be my company? No accounting for taste, Arinel.” The syllables rolled off his tongue pleasantly, and another appraising look reinforced a brief initial thought he recalled just before he'd seen the man punched, that he was quite easy on the eyes. 

“Anyone willing to jump into a barfight with a man that size just because he was defaming a public figure seems alright enough to me. Fain was a friend. I appreciate it.”

“Fain… Was like my brother. I wasn’t just part of the Inquisition. He was family.” 

Arinel nodded. “He has that effect on people…” He frowned, but didn’t correct his tense. Alick passed the bottle in his direction.

“I seem to have gotten us kicked from the only respectable bar in the next twenty miles in any direction, so it’s a meager offering.”

“I suspect I’d be doing you a favor to help you finish it,” Arinel said with a smirk, and took the bottle. “To Fain.” He took a long drink, then slid the bottle back towards Alick.

“To a good man,” Alick added. 

They passed the bottle back and forth until it was empty, and the room seemed to spin around Alick as he leaned heavily on the table.

“I think perhaps I should take my leave,” Arinel said, speaking slowly and deliberately, which made Alick grin, as he’d done the same more than once to avoid slurring horribly, and before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he reached out and put a hand on the elf’s.

“You don’t have to.” 

Golden eyes met his, and a slow smile spread across Arinel’s face. “Are you propo… Propopros--” He paused, “Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?”

Alick grinned and his brows arched. “You’re a very handsome man.”

“And you are incredibly drunk.”

“You say that as if it’s a problem.” He started to stand, settled back in the chair again for a moment, then tried again. He would have pitched off to the side if it weren’t for a steadying hand on his shoulder, which slid down his arm as the elf stepped in to close the distance between them, leaving the final portion for Alick to close. Alick let a quiet huff of laughter out, and did just that, the kiss somewhat awkward at first as he fought the pull of gravity, and also not to fall onto the elf. Arinel took directive, slowly steering him across the room until he felt his legs hit the bed. This also meant that he overcorrected his balance, and fell promptly backwards, grabbing onto the only thing handy, which happened to be Arinel’s shirt, pulling him down as well.

A curtain of silvery blonde hair cascaded off Arinel’s shoulder, catching his eye even with the elf quite pleasantly sprawled across him, their lips, briefly parted in the fall, once again pressed against his. 

Alick decided he would be a fool to pass up the opportunity, and a quiet voice in the back of his thoughts even whispered a tantalizing prospect indeed. Perhaps this would be a better method and marked by a nice absence of nausea compared to his customary memory-wiping methods. 

His hand wandered from its place tangled in cloth to the small of Arinel’s back, and he closed his eyes, savoring the kiss, the faint taste of the sweet liquor lingering on his tongue, or perhaps the elf’s.

 


End file.
